Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,13

which they found themselves.

The duke didn’t resume speaking until Dare had regained the ability to draw an even breath. “I’ve a fortune saved and available for you.” There was a slight pause. “A fortune that I can give you.”

All Dare’s senses went on alert. “Oh?” It didn’t escape him, the key word that had fallen in the very middle of the duke’s sentence—can.

Not “would.”

Not “intend to.”

“Can.”

And “can” implied strings attached.

Of course, what did you think? A duke intended to simply turn over a fortune to you?

Even if the old man held some sentimentality for the boy he’d once known. “What do you want?” Dare asked bluntly.

His Grace didn’t mince words. “For you to look after your sister.”

And just like that, the illusive hint of a dream withered on the vine of hope. “She doesn’t seem to be one in need of looking after or, for that matter, wanting my assistance.”

The duke rested a hand on Dare’s arm, reminiscent of the way he had when Dare was a small child. “You know that isn’t true. All women require looking after.”

There was only a partial truth to the duke’s words. In making women property and chattel of their fathers and husbands, society had thrust women into that precarious state where marriage was a prison and yet could also represent escape.

I want to see you protected, Temperance . . . I want to see you safe . . .

The duke continued speaking, and Dare welcomed the diversion from thoughts of . . . her. “If I give you those monies, Darius, you’ll be gone.”

“Aye,” he allowed. And he’d never look back. Because nothing good could come from doing so. Not truly. He’d committed himself to never being bound to any place. “You are not wrong.” He’d never bind himself to anyone . . . Although that isn’t altogether true, a voice taunted. For there had been one person. One act . . . of folly. Of weakness. Dare shoved those thoughts of Temperance far away in his mind. “Why is it so important to you that I return?” he asked flatly. Once upon a lifetime ago, the old duke might have “dear boy’d” him and teased him, but they didn’t have that relationship any longer. More, they had no relationship, and never would. The sooner the duke accepted that, the better off he’d be. “What use do I serve to you?”

A frown chased away the smile on His Grace’s lips. “Is that how you view the world, Darius? With suspicion and cynicism?”

That was the kindest, most generous way in which he viewed the world. Dare, who’d lived firsthand its cruelty and ruthlessness. “What do you want?” he repeated quietly.

His Grace chuckled and thumped Dare on the back. “I do appreciate your honesty, grandson.” His levity was replaced by a tangible worry in the ancient lines of his wrinkled cheeks. “Kinsley has no fortune of her own, and, well, she’s an example of the peril an unmarried woman finds herself in when we are no longer here. If you go, I’ll be left trying to find an answer to the question of what happens to your sister.”

His sister . . . Kinsley . . . All those words, completely foreign. It was a singularly odd way to think of the stranger who’d stepped out of the room, who but for her obstinance bore no hint of a connection to Dare.

“When your grandmother and I are gone, and you eventually hang”—the duke spoke plainly of Dare’s death—“your cousin returns to the role of marquess.”

The scoundrel and spendthrift . . .

“What are you proposing?” he said flatly.

“Stay around long enough to see your sister married off. She has no fortune of her own, and if the estates revert to your cousin, that cad will likely just let her starve.”

Dare took all that in. “In order for me to secure monies that, according to you, were always intended for me, you plan to keep me as a hostage?”

The duke’s eyes twinkled. “If you consider living in Mayfair with a houseful of servants to tend your needs and no worries about a hangman’s noose awaiting you being held hostage? Then yes.”

Tension whipped through him, and, restless, Dare wandered over to the window, looking down upon the clean streets below. Lords and ladies in their finest morning dress strolled down the pavement, while along the cobblestones, young lords and gleaming carriages passed at a steady clip. Lady Kinsley wasn’t his concern. She wasn’t a sister to him. Not really.